Behind the Iron Beasts
by C.D.Wofford
Summary: Major Jamie Stewart of the British Cavalry is one of only men to survive the charge on the German guns. When he finds himself in a German POW camp, he sets about leading a "quiet revolution", winning the respect of the other prisoners. But has someone else noticed his efforts? More importantly, will Jamie's bravery earn him unwanted attention from the camp guards? T for beatings.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hello, all! This is my first foray into the fandom of "War Horse". And, may I say, that I'm not even as much a fan of the movie as I am a fan of history, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Tom Hiddleston. Anyway, in the movie it really bothered me that it appeared Benedict's Character, Maj. Jamie Stewart was the only man who survived the charge, (besides Charlie Waverly, the soldier with a fancy hat) and we didn't even get to see for certain what happened to him. The last we see is him getting off of his horse in the middle of a circle of German soldiers. Upon looking up the history, I found out that he actually went MIA and nobody really knows what happened to him. So that was my cue to write a fanciful idea of what COULD have happened. I've read a lot of survivors' accounts of German camps, so it's based off of that. It's pretty rough in the meantime, but I promise, I PROMISE there will be a happy end. And nobody dies. So. ;) **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Jamie. The Commandant, however, I claim responsibility for. **

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><p>Behind the Iron Beasts<p>

4-21-2012

_Being an embellished speculation of what might have happened after Major Jamie of the British cavalry was taken by German soldiers on the field, after the heroic charge of the cavalry upon the German heavy artillery ended with the death of nearly every British soldier, excepting Jamie and another injured minor officer._

The truck rattled and jostled on the rutted dirt track. Captain Jamie Stewart was sitting on a bench in the back, crowded in among five or six German soldiers and officers. He was handcuffed, of course. They were silent, and had been for the last seven hours or so, but now a German peered out of the back of the canvass-covered transport and returned to sit across from Jamie. He pulled a scissors and razor from his pocket and held them toward Jamie.

"Shave," he said, simply. Jamie completely got rid of his mustache. He was looking in a shard of broken glass as a mirror, that a German provided. A slight smile creased his pale face as he thought how much younger he looked without one. More like the 23 years he was than the 35 he was used to portraying in the army. He was a Major in the British Cavalry, and it always was useful to make the new recruits think he was a good several years older than they were. Being finished, he held the scissors and razor back toward the German. The officer made no motion to take them back.

"Your hair. It must go. You'll have no need of it where you're going."

Jamie gave a little laugh, and kept the scissors and razor still proffered in his outstretched hand.

"It's quite alright; I like it pretty well the way it is."

A young, rough soldier seated next to Jamie grabbed his head roughly with his large hands and his mate on the other side began forcing Jamie's hand holding the razor toward his head.

"You will do what you're told, Brit!"

"Hans, Friedrich. Desist. He will be the one dealing with the lice anyway." The firm voice of their superior made the soldiers take their hands off of Jamie and sit quietly, with a smirk directed his way. He smiled in return, and the superior took the shaving implements back.

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><p>Jamie stepped out of the back of the truck. The sky was grey. The scene was grey in every aspect. There were guard towers outlined against the sky on the other side of the camp. The numbered huts and buildings were drab and monotonous, the ground was thick grey mud. Four Germans stepped out after him and escorted him to the door of the nearest building.<p>

"You've brought me a pretty one this time, Gustav!" the Commandant of the camp said, standing in the door of the building. "What a smart uniform! Who is he?"

"Major Jamie Stewart of the British Cavalry, sir," one of the escort answered, "The fool who led 300 cavalry against our camp near the French coast."

"Ah, a prisoner of war?" the Commandant said, then turning to the rest of the men, "thank you. You may go. Since he is so important, we will take good care of him here." All of the escort tramped through the mud back to the truck, except one. "Follow me in here and we will complete the paperwork. Bring him," the Commandant said shortly, and went back inside.

Inside was a small dark room, though clean, with a desk and a few chairs. Two or three German guards off-duty lounged about smoking, and looked on with mild interest as Jamie was brought in. Jamie stood before the desk, erect and proud. His one remaining escort stood beside him, bending over the paper on the desk with a pen, scribbling here, and writing there. Finally he straightened up and threw the pen down on the desk. The paper was picked up by the Commandant behind the desk and placed in a drawer.

"Very well, thank you, Gustav. You may go if you wish, but if you have time, perhaps you'd like to stay to see him settled in a bit?"

Gustav grinned.

"Certainly!"

The Germans that had been lounging around stood up and closed around Jamie, grinning. One of them snatched the cap off Jamie's head. The head officer came around the desk and the guards made way for him to get close to Jamie. He looked admiringly at Jamie's uniform jacket, and then his eyes traveled down to Jamie's hand, where a ruby glinted from a ring of gold. It had been a gift to Jamie from his sweetheart on the day he left England for the war.

"You shouldn't wear such pretty things here;" said the Commandant, "they might get dirty. I will keep it for you." He turned to the others. "Take it off him."

Jamie let the ring slide from his finger without comment, though he was stiff with defiance and anger. The Commandant stepped around his desk and dropped the ring into a drawer.

"The jacket is _mine_, you bloody German gits!" Jamie spat, quietly but potently, as the guards proceeded to take his handsome jacket, leaving him with a plain white shirt beneath. The Commandant raised his eyebrows.

"Ah, but you must know you cannot talk like that here! You must have more respect. We will have to punish you. Fritz, how are the correction chambers?"

"Full, sir. All are in use."

"That's alright. We can make an example of him in the open here, so others will learn as well. Bring him over to the doorway. You and you, each of you hold one of his hands to the doorposts on either side, like so." The Commandant spread his hands wide. "And keep him standing as long as you may. Fritz, the rod."

Gustav chuckled as Fritz retrieved a heavy rod from the corner.

"I'm glad I stayed to watch!"

Jamie didn't struggle as his arms were grabbed by the two guards indicated to hold him still while the punishment went on. The Commandant took a thin willow switch out of his desk and went through the door, and then turned and faced Jamie, who by now was standing in the doorway, his hands on the doorposts on either side of him and two guards holding them there, facing outward. Fritz with the rod stood behind Jamie, the officer with the thin switch in front of him. Gustav watched, grinning. The Commandant said; "I will expect you to remain still. Of course, you cannot help but struggle a little; no one can, but if you break free of my men it will be very unpleasant for you."

Fritz struck Jamie brutally in the back with the rod. Jamie jolted forward a little with the force of the blow and a grunt escaped him, but he didn't struggle. The Officer stepped close to his face.

"You made a sound! Real men do not make a sound as they suffer. We must teach you to be a man." He whipped the willow switch across Jamie's face. It stung terribly. Another blow from behind. Jamie repressed the grunt this time to save himself from the willow sprig.

"Ah!" the Commandant said, "defying and rebelling against our punishment, eh?" and the willow-switch lashed across Jamie's face again. And on it went. Finally the Commandant held up his hand for Fritz to stop. Jamie was breathing harder than usual, but otherwise was silent, though he was weak with pain and relied heavily on the guards to keep him standing. The guards that had been holding him gave him a mighty shove from behind and sent him into the mud outside in a heap at the feet of the Commandant. Jamie's hands covered his welted, stinging face as he fell into a sort of daze. The Commandant kicked at him in distain.

"Your barracks are two building down on the right, Block 17. You may go there, or lie here as an example to the others that pass by." The Commandant and guards went back inside. Jamie did not get up, but lay nearly senseless in the mud outside.

It began to rain.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So there you have it! Chapter one. What did you think? Not a happy beginning. I wasn't even going to post this story (too embarrassing), but then I found the picture of Benedict on Pinterest, and it fit the story so perfectly that I HAD to use it as the cover. So here we are. Please, feel free to give notes, comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism. Historical correction is also appreciated. In fact, do more than feel free to leave them...PLEASE, PLEASE DO! I ignore flames. <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for the reviews they have been leaving, and especially those of you who offered the historical corrections. Some of you through fanfiction, and some of you through iMessage. I stand corrected: there were no concentration camps during WWI (though there were POW camps, my fault for mixing up the terms) and the Germans were not Nazis, as the party hadn't even been formed yet. Thank you so much for pointing that out! I will fix the story as we progress, and I am sorry for the mistakes. My mind had done a flip-flop and I was thinking in WWII mode, even though I had known before that the story happened in WWI. The mistakes have now been corrected.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jamie. The POW camp in this story is not an actual camp, and as such it's geographical location is unknown. The practices in this camp are also of my own creation, but camps similar to this did exist, and the survivors lived through horrors indeed. **

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><p>When Jamie came to himself a little and sat up, the light was no different. But it seemed to him he had lain there a long time. He concluded it must be the next morning. Slowly, he stood up and looked down the mud lane toward the building that must be his barracks. His face was so swollen and sore he could barely see through his puffy eyes. He wanted to lie down again; he hurt everywhere, but his pride forbade him.<p>

He looked at the door of the officer right before him. And he went inside.

The Commandant looked up at him in mild amused surprise, and then down at the rainwater puddling around his feet on the floor of the office. Jamie painfully straightened himself and stepped closer to the desk.

"I am here for my jacket, German," he said.

The Commandant smiled and glanced at the jacket, hanging on a peg on the wall close to him. He turned back to Jamie and looked at him searchingly.

"You are boldly impudent. I could have you punished again. You know this?"

Jamie stood immovable.

"Yes. I know."

The Commandant lost his cool in the face of Jamie's.

"Who do you think you are? Idiot! Leading 300 men on horses against 600 heavy artillery? And what you get is every one of your men dead. After just having been punished for insolence, you come right back in here and repeat the offense! Fool!"

Jamie's face tightened with emotion, and he startled the German officer by stepping forward quickly and leaning over the desk, bringing his face close to the Commandant's.

"If your country ordered you to shoot yourself through the head, would you do it?"

"Yes, I would," the German replied.

"That's what I've done for my country. I've shot myself through the head, I've even given the lives of my 300 men. And maybe it was foolish, but at _least_ call it noble!"

The German was silent for several minutes. Finally he said quietly, "I will not punish you today. Go to your barracks."

Jamie hesitated. But at last he nodded, and gingerly made his way to Block 17, knowing he had struck a chord with the Commandant.

The barracks didn't contain bunks of any sort; instead the room was simply filled with wooden frames perhaps two and a half feet high and stuffed with hard, packed, dirty straw, with narrow isles in between. The wooden frames were large enough to hold a few dozen people, and onto one of these, Jamie sank. Everyone that usually occupied the barracks at night were out working at the quarry, and he had the room to himself.

Soon he was asleep.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: I do realize that according to the rules of writing, you are never supposed to end a chapter with someone falling asleep, (unless they've been knocked unconscious, poisoned, we don't know if they're dead or not, etc.) , and that this was terribly short, but this was the best place to break for this one. And I wrote this several years ago. So. *sheepish grin* I apologize for the errors I make in writing style, or historically. Please point out any of these and I will do my best to fix them! <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Here's a much longer chapter to make up for the short one yesterday. I am trying to get back into my regular Monday/Friday posting schedule, (it sort of went out the window over the holiday season) but I'm trying to get it back together. In the meantime, you guys won't mind if I post more often? ;) Sort of something to make up for my long silence. Anyway, this chapter has a significant amount of violence in it (beatings, basically) so just be prepared for that. But the next chapter has a bit of character development in it, resulting from the incident in this one. So hang in there. **

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><p>The following days were interesting for Jamie.<p>

He was treated with contempt even by the other prisoners, who were nearly as mean-spirited and spiteful to one another as the guards were to them. He didn't take it amiss; he simply took it upon himself to change it. He spoke a kind word to others in the quarries where they were forced to work. He expressed sympathy and compassion for a 15 year old prisoner,-the boy wasn't even supposed to be there and had faked his age to join the military in the first place- and took half the lad's work load on top of his own for a few days until the kid's strength built back up.

It did not go unnoticed by anyone, either the prisoners nor the guards. But no prisoner said anything of it; they were familiar with these sorts of actions from new prisoners, soon to be beaten out of them by guards' bludgeons and harsh usage. The guards loathed Jamie's attempts at cheering the others, and he was forbidden, as were the rest of the inmates, to help any other with their work. Jamie ignored it and went on, though he was more careful about who saw him doing it. He was still caught sometimes and screamed at.

There was one other prisoner who was not snappish and dull like the rest; a filthy old man who'd been a man of the church before the war, a Pastor Nadarkani. He was now forbidden to mention any kind of allusion to either Jesus Christ or Heavenly things, even more so to preach. Nevertheless, at night in the barracks, (which happened to be the same one in which Jamie slept) he could often be heard praying, and sometimes in the quarries, if he thought no guard could hear, he would encourage others to fly to Christ for the strength they needed.

Jamie did not develop a friendship with the old man; he was wise enough to know friendships dangerous in such a place, but seeing the old man was so terribly thin and weak, he began watching for opportunities to be able to help him with his work without getting caught.

During these days also, Jamie was learning about camp routine. And what he was learning did not please him. On his fourth day in the quarries, Jamie noticed a sick prisoner stumbling repeatedly with his load. A guard came over, after urging him on with threats to no avail, with a clipboard in his hand. He asked the prisoner his name and number, and scribbled on the clipboard. The prisoner seemed terrified; but they always seemed terrified when speaking to a guard. Jamie went back to his own work with relief. Surely when that guard had marked upon his clipboard he was putting down the sick prisoner for an infirmary visit. He'd be given rest and could get a chance to get his strength back up.

He spoke an encouraging word to that effect to the prisoner when he passed him. The sick man looked at him with round, dread-filled eyes.

"He didn't put me down for infirmary! Every one in the camp fears those clipboards. They're schedules for floggings! Each barracks has its own page. Every Sunday they come to the barracks with the clipboard and call out names from the pages. Every one who's name is called gets thirty lashes with a whip, for whatever they did during the week. That's what the hook is for on the wall in the barracks. They hand-cuff you, and hang the cuffs on the hook, so your hands are over your head..."

Jamie stopped listening. He was too busy staring in astonishment at the guard, who carried the clipboard under his arm so nonchalantly. Jamie did not speak much to anyone for the next couple of days. His mind was too full.

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><p>Sunday arrived. There was no quarry work today; the guards all got a day off…after they had made their rounds with the clipboard. It was early in the morning; only just getting light. The prisoners were awake, sitting tensely on the makeshift beds, all facing the back wall. They were staring at the hook fastened in the wall six feet and three inches off the ground. Jamie sat near the old pastor, who was praying. Jamie knew from his observations that Pastor Nadarkani had been caught four times preaching the past week, and as a result had had his name written four times upon the clip board. One hundred and twenty lashes, that meant. And that would surely kill the pastor.<p>

Jamie did not look at him.

The young Major had never given much thought to the idea of faith. But in his heart, as he gazed at the hook on the wall, a prayer rose as well: _Oh God! Be with me in this place._

Every face turned toward the door to the barracks behind them as four guards, one holding a clipboard, trooped in, followed by a uniformed German with a whip, and last of all, the camp Commandant. The guards walked to the back wall, and the German with the whip and cuffs stood by the hook, waiting for the first name. The Commandant stood to one side, where he could observe the proceedings and the reactions of the prisoners who were forced to watch by the other three guards. The guard with the clipboard called the first name, and the whippings began.

One after the other, four unfortunates were roughly stripped, the whip applied, and were sent back to sit on the beds. Shrieks of agony. Screams of pain tore the air in the barracks as it went on. The fifth prisoner began wailing in despairing horror while the shirt was being taken from him, before the cuffs even touched his wrists or the lash his back. Jamie waited tensely. He couldn't bear to see the pastor whipped, so old and frail. He hoped somehow the guard would skip his name.

But it was the very next one called.

"Nadarkani! Number 467!" The Pastor slowly started to stir himself, trying to get to his feet to go up and receive his punishment, but before he could even rise, Jamie got up and began walking to the back wall, before everyone's astonished eyes. The guards noticed nothing amiss, for they didn't recognize either names or numbers, but every prisoner gawked. This was NOT prisoner Nadarkani! The Commandant recognized Jamie immediately, but said nothing, though he watched him with slitted eyes.

As Jamie walked between the great straw beds toward the hook and the whip, he unbuttoned his own shirt and pulled it off, readying himself for the punishment rather than succumb to the rough ripping hands of the guards. This was the only shirt he had; might as well take care of it when he may. When he reached the wall, he threw the shirt in a heap near his feet, and held out his hands to be cuffed. He kept glancing toward the Commandant, as if he feared being stopped. But he only nodded the tiniest bit, his expression never changing.

Jamie's hands were cuffed, and the cuffs hung on the hook above Jamie's head. He clenched his teeth, leaning his forehead against the wall. He stood still, taking all 30 lashes with little more than a gasp here or grunt there. Then his hands were taken down and uncuffed. He picked his shirt up off the floor and calmly put it back on as he walked back to his place by the pastor, every eye glued on him in silence. The names went on being called, but two names later, the name of Nadarkani was once again shouted.

All the prisoners looked at Jamie. Would he be brave enough to get up again and face more lashes for a man he didn't know? Jamie was already walking toward the wall, again pulling off his own shirt, baring his back already crossed with thirty whip-wheels. Thirty more. Jamie's silence under the blows contrasted greatly with the appalling noise accompanying the other beatings.

He put his shirt back on and walked back to his place. He was slower in his movements, but just as erect. Five more names were called, during which the pastor gazed upon Jamie with tear-filled eyes. The young military man did not so much as glance at him. He put a hand under his shirt on his back, then brought it before his eyes again. It was sticky and dark with warm blood. He wiped his hand on the straw and waited.

"Nadarkani! Number 467!"

Jamie stood and began walking up again. His fingers were trembling and slippery with sweat, and he had a bit of trouble getting his buttons undone, but once again he held his shirt in his hand at his side when he reached the wall. The guard with the whip and cuffs snatched his shirt from his hand and threw it down, impatient to get on with his free Sunday after he finished the whippings. This barracks was the last one in the camp to do; they'd been at it since 4:00 that morning, and he was eager to get it done. Jamie looked defiantly toward the Commandant as his hands were cuffed. _You can't break me, _his look said, _you can't stop me. I'm going to be myself, not a slave. I'm going to stand for the right, even if that means standing against you._

It lasted only a moment; the next minute he seemed to realize what he'd just done, and ducked his head. He knew the Commandant had seen his look; Jamie glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see his reaction. The Commandant was still looking at him, but his expression remained unreadable. He took another beating, making the total of bleeding stripes equal ninety. Cold sweat glistening on his shoulders, arms, back, began to run into the wounds, making them smart and sting even worse. Several of the prisoners began to weep silently as they watched. Such love was unknown in the camp, so cold and dead and full of hate.

When they took him down again, he made his way back to his place beside the pastor rather quickly. He wasn't at all sure of his legs, and felt he'd better sit down as soon as he may. He'd only a few minutes, after all, before the final whipping would come, and he wished to gather his strength. He wouldn't allow himself to lie down, however. If he did, he might not get back up when "his" name was called, and that would make things very unpleasant indeed.

He sat with his elbows resting upon his knees, his head bowed, trying to steady his breathing and steel his will for what he knew he must do. He was a disciplined soldier. His will was very strong, but it was under tremendous strain. The dread of even one more stroke with that cruel, excruciating whip was settling cold, hard, and heavy in his stomach. He closed his eyes wearily. The harsh voice calling number 467 jolted him. The dread raged up inside him, but his will was braced, and he began to stand. As he moved though, the pastor seized his hand. Jamie looked at him, startled. Tears were coursing down the pastor's cheeks. He whispered "I will say a prayer for you, good soul, even as you suffer. God is with you!"

"I hope so, sir."

Jamie squeezed his hand back, and then let it gently go and stood.

He hadn't buttoned his shirt back the last time, and this time he shed it as he stood, leaving it lying, stained with blood, by the pastor. He felt weak. His face was absolutely white now. _God is with me, even as I suffer. _ His breathing quickened and became shallow as he was made sure again, and he waited for the blow to fall. When it did, he gave a sickening moan from between clenched teeth.

"One!" he shouted, as the whip was raised again. At the second blow he cried "Two!" He could no longer keep silent, and so was counting the blows until the blessed 30th stroke which would mark the end of Nadarkani's punishment. The other prisoners began counting with him, and he drew strength from their voices. At last they took him down. He turned to go back to his "bunk". He looked defiantly at the prisoners, daring them to mock him, when the salty tear tracks on his ivory cheeks were exposed to the entire barracks. The Germans did scoff him for it.

But there were many identical tracks on the faces of the inmates, and not one scornful expression could be seen among them. He stumbled to the bed and lay down on the straw immediately, half naked and bloody, with his shirt lying unheeded by. He could feel the pastor's knotted hand be laid gently on the back of his neck. He was vaguely aware of the Germans trouping out, merry at once at the prospect of free day. The officer lingered a moment and gave some orders, which Jamie didn't register. Then the officer left too, and a gathering of silent, reverent prisoners began to surround Jamie.

But Jamie knew no more.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Yeah, so that was rough. That part was actually a dream I had that sort of inspired the whole story...it's kind of violent and dark and depressing, but hey. You are the one who decided to read a fanfiction with the words "German POW Camp" in the description. ;) I WILL BE ECSTATIC FOR ANY CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM YOU MAY FEEL LIKE OFFERING! Oh, and general comments and reviews rock my day. Thank you NirCele. *imagine little heart emoticon because Fanfiction doesn't allow me to insert one*<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So, here's another short one. I wasn't going to post one today, but I don't feel good at all right now and I'm kind of lonely because my close friend didn't call me from out of state like she does every Saturday. Posting something on Fanfiction always gives me a boost, so I figured what the heck? I'll go ahead and do it. :P Hope you enjoy it! And I don't know if you picked this up, but the Commandant isn't just wicked to the bone. I kind of like him. And he will eventually become a very central part of the story with Jamie. **

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><p>Jamie slowly came awake. He tried to ascertain his circumstances before opening his eyes. He was not lying on straw. He was lying on his side, on real sheets. He felt slightly refreshed. When he breathed it felt tight about his chest and sides, and by this he deduced he was wearing a bandage. He could feel the collar of his shirt about his neck. So then he had his shirt back on. How had that happened?<p>

Someone very close by shifted. Quickly he opened his eyes to see who it was; he'd thought he was alone. There sat the Commandant by his infirmary cot. Jamie's eyes widened, but the Commandant smiled. It wasn't a predatory smile; it didn't seem threatening. But Jamie felt distrust at that unnatural expression on that man's face.

"How are you?" the Commandant asked.

"I don't know yet," Jamie answered warily. His eyes darted around the small white room once; the four other cots were empty, and no one was there save him and the Commandant. He looked carefully at the German. The latter smiled again, only this time it was a fleeting, sympathetic smile, before turning completely serious.

"You are not a fool, Major Jamie Stuart."

Jamie said nothing. The Commandant put a hand in his breast pocket and felt for something.

"I brought something for you," he said. He glanced toward the door to make sure no nurses were in the hall to witness what he was about to do. He drew out Jamie's gold ring and pressed it into Jamie's hand. "I couldn't bring your jacket; it would be noticed and would put both of us in danger and suspicion. But this is small. Your sweetheart would be proud of you for this morning. She would be proud if you wore her ring. That is where it came from, is it not? Your sweetheart in England?"

Jamie smiled a faint, mischievous smile at the memories surfacing as he looked at the ring.

"Yes. Gave it to me just before I was deployed to France. But Molly always was particular about things. I'd never hear the end of it if she knew I'd been wearing it at the quarry. You'd better keep it for me until I'm set free."

The German took the ring back and looked very grave.

"Until you're set free…yes. Until you're set free. I must go. I was making Sunday inspection of infirmary and only just had a moment to speak to you in private. Any time a nurse may come back in."

Suddenly his voice became louder and he spoke with the same commanding tone he usually did.

"You have four days abed, one day confined to barracks to rest, and the next day you must be back in the quarries, do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Good. And I sincerely hope not to see your name on the clipboards next Sunday."

And he left.

Jamie wondered what on earth to think.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: For those of you who didn't catch the little crossover-type reference. Benedict Cumberbatch, who plays Jamie in the War Horse Movie, also plays Sherlock in the series SHERLOCK. There is a girl who has a massive crush on him in SHERLOCK, named Molly. Hence, the name of his sweetheart in England in this fiction. ;) Little fun fact for you there. <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: YAY, it's Monday, and I'm posting, like I am SUPPOSED TO BE! *insert weird little spastic dance of happiness* I am so happy. Feels good to be back on schedule. Anyway, my family just found out we are going on an emergency trip to Florida this week to visit my grandpa. He's in the hospital with cancer, and he took a turn for the worse. We'll be down there Friday, (my next posting day) BUT, I am taking the laptop and I am taking my USB drive with my stories on it, and we'll have wifi where we are staying. So I should still be able to post. Anywho, about this chapter: a new character is being introduced! Those of you who watched the movie will maybe recognize him. His presence in the camp might just shake things up a bit for our Jamie...**

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><p>Upon his return to the quarries, Jamie was a hero to the inmates. For the first several days he was back, he found himself receiving the help of the other prisoners. It hurt his pride at first, but he swallowed it and graciously accepted all the help he was offered. Jamie was young and strong, and his back bore no marks except tender new scars two Sundays later. Thankfully, he did not feel called upon to bare his back for anyone either of those days; everyone out of respect for him had behaved so flawlessly that not a single name from Block 17 was on the clipboard list.<p>

The prisoners even adopted a new sign; they held up one finger, then two, then made a zero, representing 120. The 120 referred to the 120 lashes born so bravely by Jamie, and was used as a sort of courage-giving brace-up between prisoners.

He resumed his quiet resistance with fervor; helping the weak with their work, offering a borderline-smart-remark to a guard in defense of a prisoner being beaten with a rod for dropping something, and being punched in the face himself. Beatings in the quarry were a world different than the Sunday floggings. They were spur-of-the-moment; hard, but short. And delivered with sticks and batons rather than a whip. Jamie much preferred these of the two methods of correction, and so wasn't as afraid to speak smartly when the clipboard guard wasn't around.

New prisoners were brought in sometimes. It grew colder. But life went on. Hope began to spark in the eye of all the inmates of Block 17, and any that came in contact with the young Major in the quarry.

In the mornings, before they began the march to work, each man was furnished with a small paper parcel with a hunk of stale bread and a little cheese inside. This would be the food for the day, until they returned after dark for "supper", which was usually some kind of horrible soup. To Jamie, the paper was a greater treasure than the food it held. He began to write letters to his sweetheart, to be delivered to her in order, like a journal, upon his release.

_My Dear Molly,_

_You can't imagine in that pretty little curly head of yours what it's like here. I'm glad that you can't. But every night before I go to sleep, I think of you, and pray to God that you're safe somewhere in England. I know that you are witty as ever, and I look forward with all that is in me to see you again, so that we may marry upon my return. _

_I didn't ask you before I left, did I? We were still courting, I hadn't told you I'd made up my mind yet. But I'm telling you now, Molly; ever since I left the shores of England I haven't ceased thinking of you as a little bride. Molly, will you? I don't know what I'll be like if and when I'm released; perhaps I will be such that I would be ashamed that a pretty young lass should be asked to marry me. But I love you, and so I hope I will still be fit to be a husband if I survive. _

_Jamie_

_P.S. I have been doing my best to make things better around the barracks and quarry, where we are forced to work. I think it's working; the men now have more hope it seems, and act more like humans than cattle. The camp Commandant respects me; of course he must hide it to protect both of us, but he told me the other day that "my sweetheart would be proud of me" for a particular unpleasantness I had tackled that morning. I know you would be, if I ever get the chance to tell you what happened._

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><p>It was bitter cold, and raining, but Jamie and all the others from this side of the camp were in the cavernous dining building, sitting at rough, splintered benches at rough tables, with their food sitting in front of them in a bent metal dish. It was piping hot; too hot to eat, so they sat in the hopes it would cool off in time for them to eat it before mealtime was over. Jamie noticed the fellow next to him was soaked, shivering, had a black eye, and was gulping down the scalding mush like he hadn't eaten in days.<p>

"What's your name, then?" Jamie asked, after watching the little man a minute. The fellow looked up, and Jamie sat up straighter in surprised delight. "Didn't think I'd see you here! How are you? And what about that high-class silk-lining hat?"

The man looked uncomprehendingly for a moment at Jamie, and then a smile spread across his face, splitting his dry lips.

"Major! I thought I was the only survivor of the charge."

"I thought I was, too, Charlie."

"I didn't recognize you for a moment…your hair's longer and done a bit different."

Jamie laughed.

"It isn't 'done' at all, man, that's the difference! When you and I were together last it was shorter, like you said, and combed down. Here it's…em… natural. Can't picture myself asking the guards for a comb."

Charlie Waverly looked at Jamie's soup hungrily, and Jamie pushed it over to him. The Lieutenant asked between gulps; "How come you don't have a buzz like the rest of these poor chaps?"

"I didn't fancy it."

Jack looked at him in amazement for a minute.

Jamie said, "Look, I wouldn't recommend following my example here, unless you're willing to take a stout thwacking over it. I started out just trying to keep my dignity and stand for what's right, but it's turned into that and more. It's no longer about me. I've been trying to buck up the boys a bit, make this infernal place better. Every day I try to lend a hand at quarry against the rules. Couple weeks back I took a bit of unpleasantness for an old pastor that couldn't have borne it himself. We sing at night in the barracks, again, against the rules. I just shared my food…against the rules. You see the result. Or, when you've been here a day or two, will see it. The men are gaining heart. It gives _me_ heart, myself, to see them come back to life. I'm starting a quiet revolt. But it's risky. You've got to be willing to take abuse over it, even die. To me it's worth it. But not everyone's cut out for this kind of thing. If you're willing, then welcome, but if not, don't try."

The little Lieutenant grunted and raised his eyebrows.

"No fear there! I'm not going to give them any excuse to kill _me. _It's no use, Major, trying to change a place even half so bad as this for the better. You don't have to sleep in the barracks next to the correction chambers, do you? I did, last camp. No, there's only one thing for it, for me. Escape. And I'll do it, too."

Jamie looked grave.

"Just be careful, Charlie."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Yep, the guy with the fancy hat. In the movie, we see him being loaded into the back of a German truck, holding his tattered hat -that he had been so proud of- in his hands. He is the only other man we see survive the charge. And it looks like there might be trouble ahead for either Jamie, Charlie, or both of them. <strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Hello, dear readers. I know I have been absent for quite some time; but remember how I told you last time that my grandpa wasn't doing well and we were going to see him? Well, he died. So we had to stay in Florida much longer than we originally planned, helping to organize the funeral and memorial and attend it. And as soon as I got back I went to start a month long engagement as a nanny, so things have been both busy and emotional for awhile. But I haven't forgotten, and here I am back! This chapter is a bit longer than the others; things are heating up. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think! I sure have missed you guys. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Jamie or Charlie. The Commandant is mine. **

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><p>Jamie picked up a chunk of granite and dumped it in the wheelbarrow. His eyes, as always, darted to each of the guards in turn, always moving, keeping track of their positions and moods. It wouldn't do to whisper to a fellow prisoner just to find that a guard had snuck behind you and heard every word, and it was helpful also to know which guards were in foul tempers so one could stay clear of them.<p>

Now though, he was watching the Lieutenant as well. He knew that his friend was raw with hatred toward the Germans, hatred still dangerously hot, and Jamie was holding himself ready to interfere if something bad happened. Nothing did, however, and Jamie relaxed somewhat.

"What block are you assigned to?" Jamie whispered, when he could get a chance. The Lieutenant glanced at him.

"Block 17."

"That's where I sleep! Stroke of good fortune, that."

The Lieutenant smiled and nodded, and Jamie moved away from him again, satisfied that he had no mishap to fear at the moment.

That night Jamie and Charlie were forced into ranks with the other prisoners to march back to their barracks for the night. It was dark and wet from an earlier downpour, and bitterly cold. Jamie was looking forward to getting into the barracks. Charlie pushed through the others until he was marching next to Jamie. Silently he pulled Jamie's sleeve. Jamie looked down. The moonlight showed the dull black of a German pistol, held in Charlie's hand. Charlie tucked it back into his trousers and pulled his shirt down over it.

"Stole it while the idiot was lighting his mate's cigarette. I'm going to get out of here, Jamie. Could be a few days, maybe even a few weeks. But I'll get out."

Jamie looked straight ahead, but he whispered with great feeling in his voice; "I wish you all the luck in the world, Charlie! You'll need it."

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><p>Jamie was dragged from his "bed" and onto the ground. The impact knocked the air out of him. A kick landed in the middle of his stomach a second after, prolonging the effect.<p>

"Where is it?" a grating German voice barked, "Where have you hidden it?"

Jamie shook his head to clear it of sleepy confusion and sat up, quickly, his back against the bed's wooden frame, trying to get the breath back in his body. He saw the frightened faces of other prisoners looking at him from the bunks. Especially Charlie's, who was white and sweating. There were two guard men standing over him, very, very close. One of them was Fritz, the one who had beaten him, on the Commandant's orders, his very first day in the camp. The shiny, high black boot of the other man drove again into his stomach when he failed to answer quickly enough.

"Wh-where is what?" Jamie gasped, as soon as he could.

"_Where is what_? Listen to him playing innocent. Where is my pistol, son of a dog? The one you stole this afternoon?"

Jamie struggled to get to his feet but kept slipping on the straw-strewn floor.

"I didn't steal a gu-"

The guard's hand shot down and hauled Jamie up by the collar.

"I will never believe, personally, that you didn't steal it. You're always the one causing the trouble. If you didn't steal it, son of a dog, who did?"

Jamie saw Charlie's pleading eyes in the dark; his white, ghostly face.

Jamie said, "If someone _did_ steal it, why would they tell me? Just so I could inform?"

The guard with the shining black boots hit Jamie in the mouth.

"Do not be insolent, thief!"

"It wasn't me."

The guard drew back again and Jamie flinched, but Fritz stopped him.

"We'll search him to the bones if we have to. But let's get out of this sty and take him to my office where there's some light."

The two men began to escort him out of the barracks. Jamie looked at every face that he passed and saw anger in every one. Anger toward the Germans that treated their hero such. The old preacher stood up in the guards' path, and ten or twelve others joined him. The second guard's face darkened with anger, and he pulled a machine-gun from over his shoulder where it hung and leveled it at all of them.

"Go back to bed now, or somebody might get hurt," he growled. They made no motion to move.

"Wait!" Jamie said, and then directing his look toward his fellow prisoners, he commanded, "Let be. I'll be fine."

The prisoners reluctantly shuffled out of the way and got back on their bunks. Fritz whispered under his breath that Jamie had altogether too much authority than he liked. They escorted him out and took him to a whitewashed, empty room, with nothing but a heavy, rough, splintering desk in the center and bright florescent lighting. There was a drain in the concrete floor. Jamie looked around. This was the interrogation room. He hadn't come to visit it before, as there had been nothing about him that his captors didn't know. But he knew for a fact that prisoners thought to know military plans or secrets were brought here as soon as they entered the camp, to be questioned about what they knew. If they were reluctant to answer, they were roughed up. If no answer was still forthcoming, they were taken to the correction chambers for more intense methods of persuasion. All this Jamie had learned from fellow inmates, and now he was coming to see for himself.

Fritz sat on a little wooden chair behind the desk, and Jamie stood before him on the other side. The second man, the one who's gun had been stolen, stood by Jamie and tightly held one of his arms in his grip.

"Name?" Fritz asked, languidly, looking at Jamie from under half-closed lids. Apparently he was only mildly interested in the affair, as it was not his gun that had been stolen.

"Yes sir; Major Jamie Stewart." Jamie figured it would behoove him to be as respectful as possible under the circumstances.

"Stewart will do; you are no longer a Major."

"I am in my own country sir; becoming a prisoner of war does not take away your rank."

"Shut up!" Fritz's eyes blazed for a moment and then became calm and lazy again, "And where were you captured?"

"I am a Major of the British Cavalry, captured on the field after leading my regiment against German guns in France."

Fritz sat up and leaned forward, suddenly very interested.

"Ah! I remember you. You were the one who required discipline not ten minutes after your arrival. And the well-known rebellious trouble-maker about camp, are you not? The one that always refuses to scream when you're punished?"

Fritz seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Jamie answered carefully, "I try not to, sir."

"Yes, we have noticed. I have been wanting to teach you something about your insolence, to get another try at you myself, and it seems I am about to get my chance. We'll see whether I can make you squeal or no. I had no idea that it was you Heinrich was talking of when he said he knew which prisoner had stolen his gun. I didn't recognize you in the dark barracks. This will be very interesting!"

"I didn't steal anything." Jamie was quiet but decided.

Heinrich tightened his grip on Jamie's arm and he muttered an obscene threat under his breath, but Fritz held up a hand with a half smile to quiet him.

"Calm yourself, Heinrich, my friend. We will get your gun back, don't worry. But we mustn't rush things. Do try to enjoy yourself." Heinrich relaxed and let a satisfied grin take the place of the scowl on his face.

"We are going to search you…I hope you don't mind?" Fritz asked, grinning cruelly. Jamie inclined his head in submission. Heinrich sniggered. "Place your hands upon the desk please, and keep them there." Jamie complied. A shiver of loathing passed up and down his spine at the rough carelessness of the search. Finally, after several minutes that seemed like an eternity, Heinrich grunted, and Jamie was allowed to straighten up.

"Nothing?" Fritz asked, raising his eyebrows at Heinrich. Heinrich shook his head.

"Now, we are going to ask you a few questions," Fritz said, turning back to Jamie.

"Yes sir," Jamie said.

"And it would be in your best interest to tell the truth."

"Yes," Jamie repeated. He rolled his hands into fists to stop their slight trembling, and put them behind his back as he did so. He didn't wish his act to be interpreted as defiance.

Fritz reached inside the desk and pulled out a pistol, laying it before Jamie on the table.

"Have you seen this type of gun before?"

Jamie dutifully stepped closer and looked at it.

"Yes. All of the guards carry them."

"Very good. Truthful so far, anyway. And was Heinrich's pistol in his holster all day?"

"No sir; he left it on the boulder by the second trail, that the guards usually stand on to watch us. I saw it as I passed."

Fritz looked at him scrutinizingly.

"And, were you working near the boulder today?"

Jamie shifted his weight uncomfortably. If he told the truth he'd only be solidifying his guilt in the minds of his questioners. He decided to make a clean breast of it.

"You told me to speak truthfully. I will. I don't want to, because you will take it as proof of my guilt, but yes, I was working near the boulder. I did not take the gun, though. I swear!"

Fritz waved him to be silent.

"Yes, we've heard you say that many times. It is for us to decide whether you did or not. You, Heinrich; was there a time today when your pistol was not in your sight?"

"Yes; Schiest wanted a cigarette and I lit it for him and talked for a moment," Heinrich answered, "And no doubt this son of a dog was watching and took it when he saw the chance."

Fritz ran his hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair. His hand went toward a drawer on the desk.

Fritz said, "I'm afraid, Stewart, that you do look guilty to me. Is there anything you wish to give as evidence that you did not?" His hand lingered on the drawer-knob. "If you confess that you did it and return the gun, we will punish you lightly, compared to what your punishment will be if you have stolen it and do not confess."

"I have no evidence, but I swear that I did not take it. God, help me. You ordered me to tell the truth: I am, I did not steal. I almost wish I _had _stolen it so that I could confess and save myself! God…Jesus…" Jamie leaned both hands against the splintered desktop and bowed his head.

Fritz contemplated him a moment.

"We know it is someone from Block 17; they were the only group working near enough the boulder. We will go and see if anyone else will confess to it. If you did not do it and one of them did, I am sure they will confess to save you. They all hold you in such high esteem. If no one does, however, you will be proved guilty and will therefore pay the price for stealing the gun _and_ trying to deceive us."

Fritz stood and came to Jamie's side, and Heinrich cuffed his hands behind his back. The action was more to intensify the feeling of condemnation and helplessness in the prisoner, than for any practical reason. It wasn't as if they couldn't shoot him dead the moment he made any resistance. They marched the hero out of the bright white room and into the darkness again, to Block 17. And Jamie was feeling much less like a hero, indeed.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So what do you think? Will Charlie own up, or won't he? Leave a review and guess! It will encourage me to update faster. Just a quick thanks to my faithful commenters, NirCele and John Mitchel. You guys are so totally, totally awesome and I look forward to your reviews every time I publish anything. *heart emoticon* A HUGE hug and thank you to all you guest reviewers as well! I thank you all for your historical notes and corrections: I went back over it and I think I have fixed everything you pointed out. Any more notes are welcome!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I can't stay away. I've missed this site so much and now that I have a few quiet minutes to get on, I can't bring myself to get off! So here's another update, since I don't know when I'll next have a chance to post. Just so you know, I published another complete oneshot. It's for the "Forever" fandom and it's my first try with those characters. Check it out!**

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><p>"Get out of the barracks and line up outside! Straight line, line up! Now!"<p>

Prisoners scurried out of Block 17 and lined up to the harsh screams of Fritz and Heinrich. The flashlights of the Germans lit up beams in the mist. The prisoners were quick to answer the summons; not one had fallen asleep since Jamie was taken away, and many had talked quietly in the dark, sharing worries and prayers for their beloved hero's safety.

They stood in a line as instructed, and Heinrich made Jamie stand before all of them, lighting him with the flashlight so every prisoner could see his pale face. Fritz paced before them, shining his light in their faces one by one.

"This prisoner before you is known to you all I believe?" Fritz questioned. No answer from the prisoners. "He is suspected of stealing a firearm. He swears he is not guilty. If he is to be spared intense interrogation in order to extract a confession and the safe return of the gun, -and by interrogation I'm sure you all know I imply rigorous tortures as well- the real culprit must confess and return the firearm. I am sure that, since he is held in such high esteem among you, if you are guilty you will not allow this man to suffer the consequences."

He paced back and forth, looking at each prisoner in turn, but all either averted their eyes or gazed at Jamie's anxious face and said nothing. Charlie shrank back in line and attempted to stand slightly behind another prisoner. Fritz saw it and jerked him forward by the front of his shirt.

"You. There are not many secrets among prisoners; tell us who stole the gun and save this man, if he is innocent. If it is him, though, do not attempt to lie for him. He will deserve the agony he will endure. You will be rewarded either way. Who did it?" Fritz said, keeping his hold on Charlie's shirt. Charlie looked over the shoulder of Fritz and his eyes met Jamie's. Charlie's eyes filled with tears until they overflowed down his cheeks. Fritz followed his gaze and saw Jamie staring disbelievingly at Charlie, a wounded look in his eyes. Fritz turned back around and released the Lieutenant, smiling approvingly.

"Good. Extra rations for you and two days off quarry work. Go back to your barracks now!"

"Stewart! I'll…see you in the morning!" Charlie choked after his captain as Heinrich led him away. Jamie made no answer and didn't look back. Fritz laughed.

"I don't think you will. He'll be pretty preoccupied if I have any say in it."

Fritz turned and followed Heinrich and Jamie back toward the center of the camp, leaving Charlie to watch them go and collapse into bitter tears.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Well, NirCele gave a guess. But don't worry; I promised a happy ending and a happy ending there will be. Jamie will be okay, I give my word. Allow the events to unfold. ;)<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Well, I do realize that there is no rhyme or reason to the posting schedule here, but I am just posting when I can. :) I'm sorry. And also, allow me to apologize for the ridiculous shortness of the last chapter! I just now realized how teeny it was. Hopefully this one will be better. Enjoy! And hurrah, hurrah, HURRAH for comments!**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own anyone but the Germans.**

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><p><em>It's happening too fast! I need time to gather my strength, to prepare; otherwise I'm almost sure to give Charlie away at once. Don't let me give him away. Please, let them wait until tomorrow to do anything to me. I will have time to find strength to be brave. Please, just until tomorrow, <em>Jamie thought feverishly as the two Germans took him toward the group of buildings in the center of camp, some of which housed the guards, while other housed offices for the Commandant and his officers, the infirmary, and the horrible correction chambers.

To Jamie's unutterable relief, they stopped short of the correction chambers and turned aside into the building in which Fritz's office was located. He wasn't led back to the bright, white room though; instead he was taken down to a dark, bitterly cold holding cell, in which the air, strangely enough, seemed to be constantly moving. Here Jamie was left, with a promise to return early in the morning to see whether or not he'd had a change of heart. Either way, he could expect to furnish some sport tomorrow for the men.

And Jamie was left alone.

Jamie breathed deep sigh of relief. He was feeling a bit faint with it, actually. Someone had been listening to that prayer. He smiled a little ruefully as he said aloud, "'God is with me, even as I suffer'. I just wish I didn't have to suffer is all."

He got up and began to feel about his cell, hoping to find some niche or corner where he could be warm. Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed a semi-circle of pale moonlight on the floor, entering from a small barred window of the same shape at one end; this explained the constant moving air and the freezing temperatures. It was just above his head, and by hopping he was able to look out and find that it opened on ground level.

He found that the least breezy spot was right beneath the window itself, and huddled there for warmth. But it was a long while before he fell asleep.

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><p>He woke with a start. Something had woken him, he was sure, but he didn't know what. He almost thought he'd heard his name whispered. He held his breath subconsciously and listened.<p>

"Major Stewart, are you there?" Jamie sprang to his feet and peered into the darkness of his cell, searching for the owner of the voice. He squinted up at the window and saw a black silhouette against the starry sky.

"Lieutenant? I'm here."

The speaker went on with a rush of words.

"Thank God I found you! It's not unusual for them to man the chambers all night if they feel like it. I thought there was a good chance they'd already be working you over."

"...Not yet."

Charlie let out a sigh of grief as he hung his head.

"I'm so sorry about tonight Major. I was a coward and was willing to let you pick up the tab. I was such a selfish git. I can't…I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am." Charlie had a catch in his voice and it became thick with emotion. "I deserve this camp. I don't deserve to escape. That's why I'm bringing you this."

Charlie fumbled about in the dark, and Jamie strained to see what he was doing. He wouldn't allow himself to hope… A moment later Charlie's arm passed through the bars of the cage and held something out towards Jamie. The German pistol. Jamie snatched it and shoved it in his belt, and then grabbed Charlie's hand as it was withdrawing and grasped it hard.

"Thank you, Charles! Bless you, bless you! Oh Charlie…thank God!"

"You're not angry, then?"

"No, Charlie. I was never angry. Hurt perhaps, but not angry."

"Will it save you? When you give it back to them, I mean?" Charlie asked hopefully.

Jamie hesitated, remembering the threats he'd heard from Fritz.

"It will help, I'm certain. Thank you, Lieutenant."

He'd decided not to answer the question directly and give something a little encouraging to his Lieutenant. As an officer, he was responsible for his men's morale, even if he only had one man left. And though he wasn't sure it would save him entirely, he knew it would help immensely.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Major Stewart?"

"Yes. Tomorrow."

Charlie rose to his feet and slowly walked back to the barracks, taking care not to be seen by any of the night guards. Jamie sank to the floor again, and rested his back against the wall. He breathed a quiet word of thanks for the respite, and fell asleep.

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><p>"Sleep well, son of a dog? Well, perhaps now you will find it convenient to WAKE UP!" A boot jammed into Jamie's side and then he was hauled to his feet. Morning light was streaming through the barred window. Fritz was standing in the doorway of his cell, regarding him with some interest.<p>

"Have you a confession to make this morning? Last chance."

Without a word, Jamie pulled the gun out from the back of his waistband and held it out toward Fritz. Fritz's eyebrows raised as he stepped forward and took the gun from Jamie's hand.

"Heinrich will be pleased. How did you obtain this? We searched you thoroughly last night."

"Someone brought it to me to return."

"And who was that someone creeping about after curfew, eh?"

Jamie stared at him evenly, but didn't speak. Fritz squinted his eyes, and then shrugged.

"No matter. But it remains for you to be dealt with. Come with me."

Fritz turned and left the room, and the two German subordinates escorted Jamie out after him. Jamie felt his spirits rising as they headed toward the Commandant's office. Perhaps he could expect a lighter sentence from him. In a moment he found himself again standing in front of the Commandant's desk.

"Look who it is, Commandant," Fritz said, gesturing the two subordinates out of the room. The Commandant looked up from his papers with some surprise evident on his face.

"This one again?" he said, shuffling some papers aside on his desk and leaning forward with interest. Fritz laughed.

"Yes. We get another chance to work on him."

"What have you done this time, Brit?"

"I'm accused of stealing a gun from one of the guards." Jamie carefully phrased his reply to sound as if he was taking the blame, without actually saying he had done it. "I returned it, though."

The Commandant's eyebrows lowered sternly. He turned to Fritz inquiringly, and Fritz laid the gun upon the table.

"Heinrich's, Commandant. The Brit swore up and down last night that he didn't take it. We locked him in a cell for the night, and this morning he returned the gun. Your permission to take him to Correction Chambers?"

"Unfortunately, Fritz, that may not be possible." He tapped the papers on his desk with his finger once, and Fritz nodded. "Leave us alone. I will talk to our British friend."

Jamie watched as Fritz left the room, closing the door behind him.

He was alone with the Commandant.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Oooh, so what are the papers on the desk? Whatever they are, it seems like they've gotten Jamie out of trouble...at least for now. Comments make me happy on my down days, guys. Hugs for all of you who have been leaving notes! <strong>


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